


I Be Representin'

by Swaagg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Double Life, M/M, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Unsafe Sex, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swaagg/pseuds/Swaagg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is a whore.<br/>A well-paid one, mind you, but a whore nonetheless, and he takes his job very seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [I Be Representin'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2378588) by [ElasticLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticLove/pseuds/ElasticLove)



> At first, I wanted this to be a Sterek version of Pretty Woman, and then I realized that I've never seen Pretty Woman, so I have no idea what it's about. BUT. I started writing this instead. It's probably going to turn into some multi-chaptered atrocity, not too long mind you 'cause I'm slowly but surely working my way up to something big. This is not it, however. 
> 
> In addition, Stiles does have a lot of unsafe sex. Stiles is having sex with men with high social/political status, men with wives, etc., who cannot be caught up in a scandal such as having sex with prostitutes or men, for that matter, so all these men are really careful. 
> 
> This is also unbeta'd, so mistakes are most assured.
> 
> With that said, if you still want to read this story, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Musical Inspiration: Ludacris ft. Kelly Rowland - I Be Representin'

Stiles Stilinski is a whore.

A well-paid one, mind you, but a whore nonetheless, and he takes his job very seriously.

For example, the man below him is writhing, face scrunched up in rapture, lips bitten red, and fingers beating a tremulous tattoo where he clutches at Stiles’ hips.

Stiles can see that he's about to come, and Stiles is nowhere close to getting off, but it’s not about his pleasure, is it?

He rolls his hips slowly, hole gripping wetly at the man’s dick, and said man keens, throwing his head back onto the pillow and sending praises to the heavens.

Stiles doesn’t make a sound, just works him leisurely until he feels it, warm and slick, leaking onto the insides of his thighs.

The man's breath is deep and labored as Stiles unseats himself.

He uses the man’s shirt to clean himself off before pulling on a pair of jeans and a red hoodie.

He is reaching for the cash on the dresser when a hand catches his wrist, thumbing light circles onto his skin.

“Stay,” the voice croaks.

And Stiles huffs because he hates this shit.

The guy who’d approached him at the beginning of the night was hot, stupidly rich, and an asshole.

Not this fucking lady-boy who gets attached after one fuck.

He jerks his arm away, grabs the money, runs and keeps going until he’s back at the bus stop. He hops on the first bus he sees.

 

\--

 

Stiles groans, head hitting the varnished wood with a dull 'thump' that echoes throughout the silent aisles.

Liberal Arts Math was devised by sadists.

Lydia snorts from her side of the table, fingers flying across the keyboard, and Stiles glares blearily in her direction because it’s all her fault.

“You told me that this class would be easy,” he complains.

“It is easy.”

“You’re a lying liar who lies.”

A small smirk quirks her lips, but she says nothing.

Stiles sighs, throwing his pencil petulantly at a distant corner of their hideaway.

He’s hungry, and he’s not going to get anything done when his stomach is actively trying to eat itself.

“I’m going to the Snack Shack. Want any—”

“Caramel, mocha latte. Two shots of espresso, skim milk, and a coconut flavor shot.”

He scowls, “Anything else, your highness?”

More tapping at the keyboard.

He narrows his eyes at her, marches out of the library, and decides that he needs to find better friends.

 

The line is fucking long, and Stiles hates waiting, so he cuts somewhere in the middle.

Trick Number One to cutting lines is to never look back at the person being cut.

Stiles is happily giving this concept real life application when a foreboding, “Excuse you,” is growled into his ear.

He’s having a hard time keeping his eyes straight ahead because the profile attached to that voice has got to be something akin to magic.

A hand on his shoulder whirls him around, effectively ending his struggle, and he’s face to face with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Multiple Orgasms.

Stiles may have swooned a little.

“Uh, hey,” he tries.

Jesus, if looks could have killed, Stiles would’ve been stir-fried, sautéed and served on a platter.

“Look man, I really need to get a few snacks ‘cause I’m pretty sure that Satan himself instituted Liberal Arts Math into the general educations requirements which doesn’t make any damn sense because I’m never gonna use it in life. EVER. I already know not to play the lottery because lottery winners aren't real. Who wins the lottery anyway? I've never met a lottery winner; have you? Exactly. And I think my stomach is attempting to consume what little brain cells I have left ‘cause I haven’t eaten in at least four hours, which is weird. I eat all the time, and I’m going to do you a favor and shut up now because your eyebrows are doing weird things, and please don't eat me,” Stiles pleads.

Mr. Multiple Orgasms seems torn between amusement and homicide.

“What are you getting? I’ll pay.”

He glares for a solid minute before he says, “Fine.”

Amusement, then.

Good. Dying is strictly reserved for finals week.

“I’m Stiles, by the way, Stiles Stilinski.”

The guy’s eyebrows crawls high into his hairline like he thinks that ‘Stiles’ is a stupid name.

“Derek.”

“Okay, Derek. What will it be?”

Derek stares at him intensely for a few minutes, and Stiles talks at him in the meantime, because ADHD quiets for no man, until he barks, “Coffee. Black.”

“Heh, typical.”

Derek’s expression is back to murderous now, so he hurriedly pays for his things, Lydia’s ridiculous caffeinated monstrosity, and practically shoves Derek’s coffee into his hands.

“Thanks for the cut and not killing me and everything,” he gushes and hustles to the safety of his library corner, only sneaking two furtive glances back at his would-be-executioner.

 

\--

 

The alley is dark and dank, but clean for what it is.

The asphalt beneath his knees is cold and hard, and he has to remember to post on the discussion forum for his Modern British Literature class before midnight.

Also, the bane of his college existence.

The guy above him is groaning, fingers tracing Stiles’ cheek as he thrusts shallow and steady into Stiles’ mouth.

His eyes are a warm, honey brown, and Stiles has to close his eyes because its too familiar, and he doesn’t need that here, doesn’t want that here.

Instead, he relaxes his jaw, and the man grunts when his dick hits the back of Stiles’ throat.

A gentle hum earns him a tug on the ear, the only warning before the man is coming hot and wet.

He swallows around the man’s cock, licking and sucking until he feels it soften.

When it slips out of his mouth, he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The man holds out the money, breath coming in short pants, and Stiles takes it, tugs his hood up and leaves.

He posts on the forum with ten minutes to spare.

 

\--

 

Midterms are fucking over, and to celebrate, he and Scott are having a Bloody Roar/movie marathon day.

It’s nice to rekindle their bromance because Scott is always with Allison now, and Stiles really hates playing third wheel when he goes over to Scott’s room.

“Dude, you’re totally cheating!”

“Shut up, Scott. You’re just mad that you suck,” Stiles crows, executing a special move that kills Scott’s player instantly.

Scott gets this sad puppy look on his face, and Stiles is weak, so he offers to pay for snacks.

“Smartfood and peach tea?” Scotts asks, hopefully.

And if Stiles wasn’t sure that Scott was a 1000% straight, he would question his best friend’s sexuality.

Instead, he claps Scott’s shoulder with a smile and says, “Sure, buddy.”

 

He’s in the refrigerator grabbing the biggest bottle of Dr. Pepper he can find when he sees him.

Derek’s wearing a dark gray Henley that outlines the cuts of his arms and the contours of his abs perfectly.

It’s distracting.

So distracting, in fact, that he drops the Dr. Pepper and watches as the bottle rolls its miserable way down to Derek’s boot.

 _At least it didn’t explode_ , Stile thinks, making his way over to where Derek is just staring at the bottle of soda as if it were personally launching an attack on him.

“Heel, DP.”

That amused/homicidal look is on Derek’s face again, and Stiles concludes that this will be Derek’s default expression around him.

Stiles is actually okay with that so long as there’s no actual blood and death involved.

Derek bends to pick it up, and Stiles ogles shamelessly, because _dat ass though_.

It’s round and firm, and Stiles is debauching it with his mind in eighteen different positions.

“Stiles,” Derek grinds out impatiently, and that ‘I’m trying my best not to swallow your soul’ face shouldn’t be hot, but it is.

Like blazing hot, and Stiles’ brain might be on fire.

Derek snorts, shoving the bottle into Stiles’ chest and stalks away, leaving a sputtering Stiles behind.

“Thanks,” Stiles calls after him, but Derek doesn’t look back.

Scott sidles up to him with that perpetually befuddled pout.

“Who was that?”

“My most glorious, sadomasochistic, wet dream realized.”

Scott’s face is pinched like he doesn’t understand—and he probably doesn’t—so Stiles pats him on the head and pays for their things.

 

\--

 

It hurts.

This guy’s not gentle at all, just slams into him, hard and reckless, no finesse, and Stiles is choking on every thrust, air struggling into his chest, and he thinks that he’s going to pass out soon.

He leans forward onto his elbows, biting at his fist and swallowing back pained hisses because this is a part of the job.

His vision darkens, and he has a wild moment of panic, but then, the man’s hips stutters against Stiles’ ass.

Once.

Twice.

And he’s emptying himself, groaning something unintelligible.

The man pulls out, too fast, and Stiles winces with it, before keeling over and going to sleep almost instantly.

Stiles’ cock isn’t even hard.

After rummaging through the guy’s pockets for the amount they agreed upon, plus a tip for being a horrible fuck, he gets dressed and heads back to his dorm room.

He’s never been so thankful for his single.

 

\--

 

Stiles is playing Flow on Scott’s iPad in the lounge.

“You dirty, fucking piece of shit excuse for entertainment, stop messing with my emotions! You're stupid, and I bet your mother was a fucking Sega!”

He’s full on screaming at the iPad when Derek walks in.

Derek is staring at him like he’s not sure if he should leave or double over laughing.

He settles for a smirk, and Stiles is pretty sure that he’s blushing.

And drooling.

Why is the world so cruel?

“Uh, hey, Derek,” and because dignity has no place in Stiles Stilinski’s life, “could you stop doing that smirking thing? You’re kinda hot, and I’d rather not pitch a tent in my pants.”

Derek snorts and walks further into the room, dropping onto the seat right next to Stiles.

Stiles feels a panic attack coming on when Derek leans over, but then long, blunt fingers are dragging dots in mind-bending patterns, and in a few seconds, the puzzle is complete.

Stiles narrows his eyes at it, pulling it to his face for further examination before leveling a peeved glare at Derek.

“You cheated.”

The smirk on Derek’s face is smug, and Stiles wants to taste it a little bit.

“Nope, you suck at this.”

“That’s not the only thing I suck at.”

The person who has eloped with his brain could bring it back now.

Derek’s eyes, to his credit, only widen slightly, but then he grins, bunny teeth bright and white and so _adorable_.

Stiles is absolutely fucking smittened.

“I’d like to test that theory someday,” Derek, says slow and husky.

And Stiles may or may not be leaking in his jeans at this point.

He tells Derek as much.

Derek sniffs the air like a bloodhound—albeit a sexy, broody, and well-muscled bloodhound—and Stiles swears that his eyes flash red for an instant before bleeding back into a vibrant blue.

Stiles is hard.

Like, cut cocaine with his dick hard.

Sexily creepy eyes, for the win.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says and then, “dinner and a movie?”

“Yes.”

Derek’s eyes are doing that thing again, and Stiles is having a hard time concentrating on anything but his and Derek’s cocks.

In the same place.

Swollen, and leaking, and he needs to get a hand on his dick right now or he’s going to die.

He tells Derek this too because Derek should have a fair warning about what he’s getting himself into.

He’s packed up within seconds.

“So Friday at seven?”

Derek nods, eyes bright and intent.

“I’m in Patterson Hall, Room 312.”

Another nod.

“Okay, uh, see you then, then?” he babbles.

A growl.

“Growling, okay. Yeah, so bye.”

And he’s gone, borderline sprinting to his room.

 

When he's inside, he shrugs off his backpack and locks the door.

Stiles throws himself onto his bed, a hand already in his pants, squeezing and tugging at his balls.

He comes with a hoarse cry and Derek’s name on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles/Jackson is my not-so-secret OTP after Derek/Stiles and Peter/Stiles, of course. I have so many Jackson feels that I don't know what to do with myself.
> 
> He gives me heart cramps, you guys.
> 
> Heart cramps.
> 
> And Lawd, I didn't know that I was capable of angst, but there's so much of it.

"Stiles," a voice calls from behind him, and the voice is so horrifyingly familiar that he freezes, a chill stiffening his body down to the very tips of his toes.

He knows that fucking voice, and he might be hyperventilating because no one on this side of town is suppose to know his name, no one is suppose to know that he's "Stiles."

Over here, he's "Genim."

When he turns, the man is so close that they're almost chest-to-chest, and Stiles feels his stomach drop because of all people to find him it _had_ to be Jackson.

"What do you want, Jackson?" his voice must sound as weak as he feels because Jackson's smile is large and predatory, and Stiles kinda just wants to run the fuck away.

"Oh, I think you know, _Genim_."

Stiles swallows thickly, hands clammy as he wipes them on the front of his pants.

"What the fuck do you want, Jackson?" he hisses again, and it’s as strong as he intended it because no one can know that he does this. That he sells himself for money.

"Not much," Jackson says, shrugs flippantly, "just your ass for your secret."

His jaw nearly hits the floor because _what?_  

" _The fuck?_ "

"Your ass, Stilinski, is _mine_ , if you want me to keep your slutty secret." 

Jackson’s face is cold and fucking serious, and Stiles is honestly terrified.

"But why?" 

Jackson shrugs again, pulling Stiles flush against him with a small tug at the waist.

"I heard you were good, Stilinski, and I haven't had a good fuck in a long time," he says against Stiles' lips, and Stiles is mad that he's actually getting hard, that Jackson is maybe turning him on.

Jackson rolls his hips forward slightly, and Stiles swears.

Jackson smirks.

"Don't worry. You'll still get paid."

Jackson releases him, dropping a light kiss on neck before sauntering away, throwing a, "Find me this week, Stilinski," over his shoulder.

Stiles goes back to his dorm that night and shakes himself to sleep.

 

\--

 

It's Friday, 6:47 pm according to his watch, and Stiles is ricocheting off every solid surface in his room.

Derek is going be there in next thirteen minutes, and Stiles still isn't ready.

He can't find his right shoe, he burned a hole through his shirt in a futile attempt to iron it, and his car wouldn't start this morning.

Murphy's law is a fucking bitch. 

When a knock sounds on the door at 6:59 pm, Stiles is almost certain that he’s having an aneurysm.

He wrenches the door open, looking like a complete disaster, iron in hand, hair disheveled, shirt—hole and all—unbuttoned, and pants pooling around his ankles.

“Pity me.”

Derek’s smile is blinding, and he’s leaning against the doorway wearing a dark blue sweater and a pair of jeans that wrap around his legs like gift-wrap.

Stiles’ brain collapses in on itself.

“Hey,” Derek says.

“Hi,” Stiles returns because this is too much.

“I brought take-out,” he holds up a bag with the label _China Jade,_ “and movies.”

Derek has _Repo Men_ and _Underworld: Rise of the Lycans_ tucked under his arm.

Stiles might be in love.

“I think I’m in love.”

Derek smirks and shoulders his way inside, placing the bag on Stiles’ desk before taking a seat in Stiles’ chair.

“Okay, what had happened was, I was getting ready for our super awesome date night, and then my iron came alive when I was ironing my shirt, so now there’s this hole, see? And—”

He stops when he hears a laugh, quiet and low, and it does criminal things to his nether regions, but the little hummingbird is fluttering at full speed.

“Derek, are you laughing at my pain?” Stiles clutches his chest for dramatic effect.

Derek falls silent, a small smile tilting his lips.

“What do you want to watch first?”

Derek is too perfect for words.

He points at Underworld because werewolves and dismemberment? Way too easy.

Their first date is in his room.

Stiles steals Derek’s crab ragoons all throughout the movie.

\--

 

“ _Please_ ,” he begs because Jackson likes it when he’s a little desperate, when he’s fucking himself on Jackson’s fingers because it’s not enough, never fucking enough.

Stiles keens, pushing his face into the crook of his elbow when Jackson finally breaches his hole, every hot solid inch of him sliding in with one smooth thrust.

“Stiles,” Jackson gasps, and Stiles has a moment of smug satisfaction before Jackson is pulling out and slamming himself back in.

He whines, high and loud, spine curving with each thrust, lips bitten red and swollen from Jackson’s kisses.

He’s moaning, choked cries echoing against the walls.

“You’re fucking gorgeous like this Stilinski,” Jackson praises, nails digging into his hips, “you look so fucking good on my dick.” And Stiles is confused, oh so very confused, because this is Jackson. The guy who reveled in shoving Stiles into his locker. Jackson Heart-of-Coal Whittmore who's blackmailing him into being his personal fuck toy.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with this new revelation. He can’t even fathom the possibility that Jackson actually wants to have sex with him, but Jackson’s getting off, grunts guttural and low as he gets closer to his climax.

Stiles is amazed. His dick is so full, and he needs to come so bad that it hurts.

Jackson is sucking something into the skin of his back. It feels bruised and huge, and so fucking good, and Stiles is meeting him thrust for thrust now because he only needs a little more, just a little bit more until he’s—

And then Jackson’s biting him, teeth sharp, paralyzing, and Stiles knows that he has to be bleeding, but Stiles is coming, hot and sticky against his stomach, on the mattress.

He groans, smothering his face in Jackson’s pillow, tired, back sore and ass high, Jackson pumping steadily away at his hole, tongue rasping over the mark on his back until his breath hitches, come filling Stiles’ ass and slicking his thighs as he pulls out.

“ _Fuck, Stiles_.”

Jackson’s voice is soft and breathy.

Stiles can only imagine how he looks. Utterly debauched, skin covered in a light sheen of sweat, damp hair kissing his forehead, and hole red, swollen, twitching and leaking Jackson’s come onto the bed sheets.

Jackson pushes his thumb against the rim of it, come coating his finger, and Stiles whimpers brokenly, too gone to notice the gentle caress of Jackson’s hand on his cheek.

 

\--

 

They’ve been dating for three months now, and they haven’t done anything.

Sure, they make out, and Derek’s tongue almost always has him squirming in his pants, but whenever things get too heavy, Derek retreats, finishing him off with a hand job or sucking his brains through his dick.

And that’s fine, really fine, but Stiles wonders if Derek’s really attracted to him, or if he’s good enough, or a bunch of other useless insecurities that remind him of a _Lifetime_ special, so he pushes it to the back of his mind.

Derek is important to him, and he’s not being fair because Derek doesn’t know Stiles like he thinks he does.

He doesn’t know that Stiles has sex to pay for his tuition, doesn’t know that he has sex to pay the hospital that keeps his dad on life support.

Derek doesn’t know this.

Stiles probably doesn’t deserve him.

 

They’re in Derek’s room when Stiles finds out.

He has Derek under him, tongue tracing the contours of ridiculously defined abs, and his mouth is practically watering at the sight of Derek's dick.

This is the furthest they've gone since they started dating, and Stiles is nothing if not an opportunist.

He pulls the waistband of Derek’s underwear over his cock, and his mouth waters.

It’s thick and long, nestled in a neat patch of dark curls. It lays on Derek’s stomach, fat and heavy, engorged and glistening with precome, and Stiles has to squeeze himself to calm down because Derek is too fucking perfect.

Pretty everywhere.

He licks it from base to tip, and Derek makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

That’s all the encouragement he needs before he’s sucking wet kisses onto Derek’s dick.

Derek’s growling, and Stiles is humping his thigh because giving head is one of his favorite things ever.

Just as he’s about to swallow Derek down, the man does this swift James Bond roll off the bed and onto the floor. Something that Stiles would’ve been impressed with and appreciated accordingly any other time, but he was about to have Derek's dick in his mouth, and he's being denied, and Stiles wants to kick all things cute and cuddly.

“Derek, wha—”

And he sees it.

Claws.

Sharp, slice-you-up-like-a-turkey, talons on Derek’s hands.

“Jesus,” Stiles breaths.

Derek’s face is doing something weird, bones shifting under his skin, and Stiles reaches out to touch, but Derek’s hissing at him, fangs— _fangs, holy shit_ —gnashing at Stiles’ hand.

“Hey, Derek,” he tries for soothing, and its uncanny how calm he feels right now.

Derek is probably turning into a creature that can shred him limb from limb, but this is Derek, his Derek.

“It’s okay. So this is why, huh?”

He climbs off the bed, dick hanging out of his pants, but hey, life is funny that way.

“You’re a werewolf right? That makes a shit load of sense now that I think about it. You eat everything so bloody rare—ha, pun intended—that I was about to start feeding you live sacrifices.”

He can see Derek calming down, becoming more human and he kneels at Derek’s side, resting a hand tentatively at the back of his neck.

“I’m not scared. This is actually pretty fucking epic. My boyfriend’s a werewolf? It could be an MTV hit!”

Derek is watching him silently, eyes bright blue, more than a little breathtaking, and Stiles takes the chance and kisses him, a chaste press of lips.

“You’re still Derek. Just a little hairier. Is that turning into a giant wolf thing really real because Jacob is pretty boss dude, but I don’t think Twilight is a good source of all things lycanthropic?”

Derek is looking at him like he’s lost his damn mind, and maybe he has, but then he’s smiling, relieved and happy, and he’s hugging Stiles to him, nuzzling his neck.

Stiles thinks he can date a werewolf.

 

\--

 

These are the times that confuse him the most. The times when Jackson calls him over and asks Stiles to just lay with him, or hold him close, or let him rest his head on Stiles’ lap.

These are the times when Jackson talks about his parents, his biological parents.

His father for protecting him from the impact of the car crash, and his mother for throwing him from the car before the engine exploded.

Sometimes, he thanks them.

Sometimes, he wishes that he died with them.

All the time, Stiles is blinking back tears.

He runs his hands through Jackson’s hair and tells him that it’ll be alright, kisses him until the tension seeps out of his shoulders, and cradles him when Jackson whimpers in his sleep.

Stiles doesn’t hate Jackson.

And that’s sad.

Oh, so very sad.

 

\--

 

Someone is pounding on his door, and Stiles is fucking livid because sleep is almost non-existent for a triple major.

Whoever’s at his door better have a good fucking reason for waking him up or he’s going to swallow someone’s soul.

“Motherfucking, what?” he yells, jerking the door open and glaring at the mountain in his doorway.

Said mountain is Derek, and Stiles’ ire lessens but only slightly, not enough to not chew Derek out.

He’s about to start in on Derek’s ancestry, but then Derek’s pushing him into the room, fingers slipping around his neck, and a healthy dose of fear sweeps through Stiles’ body.

Derek’s not gripping hard enough to hurt or even impede his breathing, but the threat is there, and Stiles is freaking the fuck out right now.

“D-derek, what are you—” he gasps, tries to finish, but—

“You’re a whore?”

Stiles’ heart shrinks in his chest, his mouth is suddenly dry, and he kinda wants to throw up.

He can’t say a word.

“So, it’s true then?”

Derek releases him like it burns, steps away like he’s disgusted.

Stiles’ vocal chords refuse to work, and Derek looks angry, hurt, betrayed, and worse of all, disappointed.

Stiles wants to cry because he knew that this would happen sooner or later.

That he couldn’t have nice things.

He withers under Derek’s stare, and Derek turns like he’s going to leave, and Stiles should let him, but he can’t.

He latches onto Derek’s waist, and tucks himself into the harsh line of Derek’s back.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out.

Derek doesn’t turn, but he doesn’t leave either, so Stiles holds on tight and whispers his secrets into the curve of Derek’s spine.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles tells him everything.

Tells him about how his dad was the sheriff in Beacon Hills until a bullet to the head put him in a coma during Finals Week of Stiles' first semester at college.

Tells him about his lacrosse scholarship falling through because he couldn’t even make third line at a fucking DIII school.

Tells him about jokingly propositioning this graduate student for some cash in exchange for a blowjob and being surprised when he accepted.

Walks him through all the beds that he's slept in, all the bodies that he’s warmed, and finally…

Jackson.

Tells him that his balance is now miraculously at zero due to a few grants that he became eligible for through the Whittemore Foundation, and that his father is now receiving treatment that they weren’t able to afford due to an anonymous donation.

There are tears in his eyes when he finishes his story, and the nausea is back, bile roiling in his stomach.

Derek’s arms are around him, and he feels so small and used and filthy, and Derek shouldn’t even be touching him knowing all that he knows now, but he is.

He’s pressing Stiles’ face into the crook of his neck, voice soft and soothing as he murmurs sweet-somethings into Stiles’ ear, and Stiles loses it, hands clutching at Derek’s shoulders, tears staining Derek’s shirt.

Derek stays with him that night.

He talks about his psychotic, werewolf-hunting, ex-girlfriend Kate who started the fire that took his family’s life.

His sister, Laura, who was killed by his psychotic uncle.

And his Uncle Peter who he killed just because.

Stiles cries himself to sleep.

 

It’s seven in the morning, on a fucking _Saturday_ , and he can't sleep.

“Ugh,” he groans because emotions suck.

His face is a mess. He can feel it. His eyes are puffy and strained, his cheeks crusted with salt and most likely, mucus.

He must be hideous, and he can feel Derek’s stare, so he swipes at his face in an effort to alleviate the damage, if only a little.

There’s a small smile tilting Derek’s lips, and Stiles thinks that he’s lucky.

“I’m probably like eighty-five percent in love with Jackson.”

He also thinks that he’s a fucking idiot.

“I know.”

Derek, however, doesn’t sound upset, just thoughtful, and isn’t that curiouser and fucking curiouser?

“But I’m pretty much ninety-nine point nine percent in love with you.”

“I know,” he says again, and then Derek’s kissing him, soft and sweet.

Stiles is the luckiest idiot in the world.

 

\--

 

Jackson has him up against the wall, hands on his ass, and tongue stroking into Stiles’ mouth with long, drugging sweeps.

Stiles reels because this shit is ridiculous.

He'd intented to have a serious conversation with Jackson regarding non-sexually related things, but Stiles is weak, and why is he always distracted by broody men with rocking bodies and gorgeous faces?

It’s a curse.

It doesn’t help that he’s moaning, encouraging Jackson with the way that his body's undulating, legs wrapping around Jackson's waist.

He has to stop.

Now.

A groan.

Okay, now.

“Jack—Jackson?” he finally gasps out.

Jackson hums in acknowledgement, biting at the weak spot under Stiles’ ear.

If he were standing, his knees would have buckled. He settles for thrusting against Jackson’s stomach.

“Fuck, Jackson, listen to me,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

This gives Jackson pause. He lets Stiles down, taking a step back to put space between them.

He’s frowning at Stiles, arms crossed, and Stiles is surprised by how well behaved he is.

Stiles reaches for Jackson’s hand and pulls him closer.

He kisses Jackson once, a second time, and then a third, and Jackson looks a little dazed and a lot confused.

Stiles smiles.

“I love you.”      

The look on Jackson’s face is heart-breaking. It’s scared, hopeful, helpless, and elated, all at once, and Stiles hugs him, enveloping Jackson in his arms, pressing his lips to Jackson’s ear and whispering it again.

If Jackson trembles in his arms that night, Stiles pretends not to notice.

 

It’s still dark out when he wakes, and Jackson is warm at his back, fingers trailing intimately over his stomach.

“I know about Derek.”

“Of course you do.” Jackson Whittemore knows everything.

“When am I going to meet him?”

Stiles flails, turning messily to face Jackson.

“Are you serious?” Stiles asks incredulously.

Jackson smirks, “Very serious.”

Stiles cackles a little hysterically because his life is a soap opera. A soap opera to rival all soap operas, even _General Hospital_.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He’s about to say something else, but then Jackson's climbing on top of him, sliding right in because Stiles is still loose from before, and Stile forgets how to form coherent sentences.

 

\--

 

He’s been sitting on this for two weeks now; the time has come.

Stiles Stilinski is no punk.

“Jackson wants to meet me?”

“Uh, yes?”

Stiles wonders if swallowing has ever been this hard because he can only see this going one of two ways; really badly or extremely badly.

“Fine. When?”

_What?_

“You want to?”

“You’re in love with him.”

Derek says it like that’s all the reason he needs, and maybe it is.

The men in his life need to stop shocking the hell out of him because there's only so much his fragile little heart can take. 

“Well, um, are you free tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight, it is then.”

Stiles packs his first aid kit.

                                    

Stiles is nervous, understandably.

And aroused, which is a little peculiar and inapporpriate given the situation, but he’s young damn it and cursed, and Derek and Jackson in the same room is kinda too much handle

But Stiles is handling it.

By getting hard.

Jesus, his life. 

 _Focus, Stiles_ , he thinks, and it looks like they’re sizing each other up? Which is normal. Men tend to do that, but the circling is worrisome.

They’re not even glaring either; it’s just hard, penetrating stares—which does not help Stiles situation at all, thank you very much—that intensify their weird interaction.

It goes on forever, and Stiles is thirty seconds away from spazzing out when Jackson drops his gaze.

Shock, thy name is Stiles.

“What the hell is going on?” He wants to know.

“Jackson is a beta.”

Stiles flails in Jackson’s direction and stops, reigning it in because all things considered, it’s not that unbelievable.

“Right. Beta. So you’re an…?”

“Alpha.”

“I’m just going to take a seat on that couch over there.”

Stiles wobbles to said couch and drapes himself over the upholstery.

“So you’re not going to kill each other?”

He gets two headshakes ‘no.’

“And you do realize that I’m kinda seeing both of you?”

Two nods ‘yes.'

“And you’re both okay with this?”

They both smirk, and Stiles heart seizes a tiny bit.

“Well alrighty then.”

 

It turns out that Derek and Jackson are both rogues, and since werewolves are stronger in packs, they’ve decided to join forces.

It’s almost like the Justice League.

They’ve also decided that Stiles is a part of this ragtag pack, which he doesn’t mind, but he’s the omega, which yeah, kinda sucks because it means that he’s at the bottom of the pack hierarchy, but it's also kinda cool because he’s the glue that keeps the pack together.

He can dig it.

 

Who knew that sensory overload was actually a thing?

Stiles’ body is doing things that he can’t even begin to comprehend.

There’s a mouth on his dick, one down his throat, Jackson’s fingers in his ass, and Stiles has never done anything like this, but he can gladly get used to it.

Derek’s cock is throbbing, thick veins drumming a sultry beat against Stiles’ tongue, and it’s good.

Stiles loves Derek’s dick.

He laves at it, coating it in saliva, wants it sloppy wet so that it slides down his throat easier, smoother.

But Derek knows what he likes, knows that Stiles doesn’t want it easy, knows that Stiles likes it when he has to struggle, so he pushes and pushes, and Derek’s cock hits the back his of throat, and when Stiles gags, Derek’s cock slips in further.

Stiles eyes roll to the back of his head.

Stiles is thrusting into Jackson’s mouth, mindlessly, wild and feverish, fucking himself on Jackson’s fingers, and he’s thrashing on the sheets because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

And then, Jackson is swallowing around him, throat tight, oh so fucking tight, and Stiles is spasming, can’t even scream because he’s choking on Derek’s dick, and he comes, comes hard, spunk dripping from Jackson's lips.

The sound that escapes his chest is small and wounded when Derek pulls out. His throat feels bruised and raw, and Stiles would have never thought that he’d be so turned on being choked by cock, but he is, he so fucking is, and feels so empty when his throat contracts around nothing.

He needs, needs something, and Jackson provides, running his fingers through the come on his cheeks and feeding it to Stiles.

Stiles moans at the taste, sharp and salty, and it gets better when Jackson positions his cock at Stiles' hole, spearing him hot like a brand.

Stiles whimpers, pushes himself down onto Jackson’s dick, bites at the fingers in his mouth, and Jackson’s eyes glow.

Jackson strokes him deep and long, each one dragging over Stiles’ prostate, and he keens.

The darkness is sudden.

 

When he comes to Derek is above him, chest heaving and balls slapping against Stiles’ ass with the force of his thrusts, and Stiles is screaming, scrabbling for purchase on Derek’s biceps.

“So greedy.”

And Stiles so is, hole swallowing Derek’s cock over and over as it plunges into his body.

He reaches down to touch a finger where Derek’s entering him, hears Jackson groaning in his ear, and echoes it.  

It’s filthy, a heady mixture of his, Derek’s and Jackson’s come, and Stiles wants to lick it from Derek’s dick.

“So greedy, Derek. Let me taste it.”

With that, Derek throws his head back and comes, fat cock pulsing deep into Stiles’ ass.

He pulls out and sits on his haunches.

“Come here,” he growls, a husky murmur.

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice.

He nuzzles at Derek’s cock, painting his lips with it and swallows it whole.

"You're so fucking wet, Stiles. Dripping like a girl," he hears from behind him, and he moans.

Large hands spread his cheeks and a tongue licks a broad stripe over the crease of his ass, and it's perfect.

 

They change the sheets, and Derek takes him in the shower again, all slow, slick heat, Stiles' cock down Jackson's throat.

Stiles is sore, and probably won't be able to walk tomorrow, but Derek is a steady presence at his back, arm curled possessively around his waist, and Jackson is at his front, nose buried somewhere in Stiles' clavicle, and Stiles thinks that he can date two werewolves.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this may turn into a mini-series because polyamorous relationships and moresomes are my forever kink.


End file.
